


I'm Alive

by gottacatchghosts (AmazingSuperiority)



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Danny's POV, Gen, but other people appear, ghosts are made of ectoplasm dumbass, immediately post-accident, magical girls aren't supposed to be dead, this is a lot of angst tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-01 13:23:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10190798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmazingSuperiority/pseuds/gottacatchghosts
Summary: After the accident, Danny's not sure if he's even alive anymore.But he still thinks he's alive, so he can't be dead. He can't be dead because he's alive. He can't be a ghost because he's human.I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.





	1. part 1

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted to fanfiction.net [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12394954/1/I-m-Alive)
> 
> will probably also be posted to tumblr soon
> 
> thank you to my lovely gf for beta reading. you're the best ashe <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _okay so this is the first danny phantom fic ive written to completion and the first dp writing ive posted anywhere since 2007. this was based off of a tumblr post ([here](http://gottacatchghosts.tumblr.com/post/157896376376/)) and it was supposed to be under 1000 words. it’s over 7000. rip me._

Danny’s only been fourteen for a week and he’s already dead. He’s not sure what constitutes _alive_ anymore, considering how he still _thinks_ he’s human, but there’s something about him that’s different, changed. There’s a coldness set in him that no amount of huddling under blankets can fix, but the worst part is that it doesn’t bother him as much as he knows it should.

He didn’t see himself after he practically fell out of the portal— _tearing, stinging, biting pain_ —doesn’t remember Sam or Tucker’s reactions— _cold, creeping, aching pain_ —doesn’t remember what happened after he lost his voice— _his screams rattled his own head, throat ripped apart from the force of his pain_ —but he can remember that it _hurt_.

He never imagined that dying would be so painful.

He should have expected it. From what he can remember his parents telling him and Jazz about how the portal worked, he’d apparently been horribly electrocuted by _at least_ enough power to kill a full grown person. He can’t remember more than the burning, screaming pain, but he’d looked it up. With enough electricity, enough amps, the heart would completely stop and the person would be dead. End of story.

So why was he…?

After he collapsed from the portal, he’d apparently tried to speak. His voice had left him, probably from his screaming, probably because there was no more air in his lungs, so all he could do was make terrifying faces as he tried to say something, _anything_. Sam had tried to help him up but he’d fallen straight through her grasp like he was made of cold fog. He’d crumpled onto the floor like a wet paper towel and scratched at his neck, his arms, his hands, and he doesn’t remember any of that.

Sam hadn’t been able to tell him any of this, past the sensation he’d left behind as he dissolved in her grasp. She’d cried as soon as he’d stopped screaming and had been inconsolable for hours. Tucker had seemed to be in a state of shock and robotically told him what happened when he finally woke up, gasping, wheezing, frantically _alive_.

_You looked… different_ , Tucker had said, eyes not looking directly at him. _You looked dead._

Dead. He’d looked dead with hair as white as snow when the sun shines off of it and eyes as toxic green as the swirling mass that’s taken up residence in the now active portal. He’d looked dead, he’d looked _dead_ , he looked _dead_ , he _looks dead dead dead deaddeaddeaddeadde—_

Danny sucks in another wheezing breath so hard he chokes. He’s on the verge of hyperventilating, something he’d become all too familiar with in the past few years—anxiety can take its panic attacks and fuck right off—so he forces himself to sit up from where he’s lying in bed puts his hand on his chest, below his diaphragm, and focuses on breathing slowly through his nose. In for five seconds, out for five.

His panic subsides slowly, though it doesn’t completely leave him. He can feel it hovering just under his skin waiting for the right moment to _strike_ —

The next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back, staring straight up at the bottom of his bed. He doesn’t know how he got here, but the panic sends another wave of ice through his veins and he has to firmly tell himself, “I am _alive_.”

It’s become his mantra. The “accident,” as he had taken to calling it, happened several hours ago, sometime around midday. After he’d collapsed, he was out for almost two hours. Sam and Tucker had dragged him upstairs to his room, too scared to do anything else, and they’d waited for him to wake up. They’d waited for him to wake up, explained what had happened as best they could, and then they’d left.

He could speak again when he woke up, and he almost hadn’t believed that the accident had actually happened had it not been for the stuffed cotton feeling in his ears, the dryness of his mouth, the jittery pain in every muscle, and the wide-eyed terror he’d seen in the faces of his only two friends.

_Are you okay?_ he’d managed to ask them as soon as he could process words. It had felt like there was a crusty film in his throat, like a new scab. He refused to think of what that would mean.

_“You-you looked… d-dead. But now you… But you don’t—not anymore.”_

He’d still had the jumpsuit on when he woke up.

He strains his neck to look blearily up at the tiny red numbers of his alarm clock. The glow tells him it’s nearly two in the morning and he lets out a very soft, very tired groan.

His night vision is a lot better now. He’d never noticed how terrible it was _before_ but now that he’s here and it’s dark and he can still make out the lines on the ceiling— _I’maliveI’maliveI’malive_ —he can’t help but think about it.

He has to squirm out from under the bed frame—it wasn’t made to fit people under it, even if said people were scrawny fourteen year olds—but he makes it out okay. He sways on his feet, arms and legs still a little twitchy, and nearly collapses onto his bed, dragging himself to lay on it the right way even if he isn’t under the covers. He shoves his face into his pillows—these are his favorite sheets because they look like galaxies—and listens for his heartbeat.

_I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive I’m_ —there. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Had he been holding it? How long?

_I’m alive. I’m alive._

The white and black jumpsuit is a pile in the corner of the room and if he ever sees it again, it’ll be too soon. Tucker had told him that when he’d fallen towards them, he’d been wearing a different jumpsuit—or at least _it_ looked different _too_ —with black where the white should be and white where the black should be. He tries to picture it in his head, but he can’t see it. The only part he can imagine is the white gloves.

He doesn’t notice when he finally falls asleep.

Six hours later, he’s jerking awake, shoving his hands against his bed to prop himself up. Moments later, he’s crashing back down, arms completely gone. He wants to freak out, he really does, but his mind blanks out and he’s gone again, lost to a metallic buzzing that rings in his ears.

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._

It’s noon when he finally drags himself downstairs and everything is entirely _too loud_. The living room is deserted, as well as the kitchen, and he stops because his stomach is growling and he hasn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. His fingers aren’t working like fingers should so the best he can do is pour himself a bowl of cereal and hope that he can eat it all before it gets too soggy.

His knees give out as he sits down, so he resigns himself to his meal even if he isn’t sure he can actually eat right now. He’s still feeling residual aftershocks, he thinks, and blames the jumbled mess that’s become of his thoughts and his lack of fine motor skills on that instead of the dull panic that’s made its home deep in his bones.

The whirlwind in his head dies down for a moment and he can finally hear signs of life in his otherwise dead house. _I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive_. His parents must be down in the lab, no doubt ogling their newly functioning ghost portal, and he can’t help but be grateful that they haven’t yet cornered him and asked him how he’d gotten it to work.

He doesn’t want to tell them about how he’d been able to make out the ON button under his fingers before he died.

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._

He tries to focus on eating, he really does, but suddenly he can make out the words his parents are saying and he subconsciously focuses on them, eyes staring into middle ground as he concentrates.

“—t do you wanna do with our first ghost, Mads?” His father’s voice is quiet, a testament to how strong his newfound hearing is. The lab is soundproof, but the door is open. The only way the sound can escape is through the opening.

“I was hoping we could run some tests to learn more about the properties of live ectoplasm versus synthesized.” His mother’s voice is calm and analytical and so completely unlike anything he’s ever heard and he almost doesn’t recognize it.

He doesn’t notice that he’s moved closer to the open lab door until his shoulder is knocking against the wall. He shakes himself out of his stupor and leans near the door, gaze boring into the tile floor as his dad speaks again.

“Great idea! This fake crap that we’d had to make can’t be _near_ as good as the real deal!” There’s a light scraping sound followed by some footsteps. “What’re we waiting for!?”

“Jack,” his mom sighs affectionately, “you know that we aren’t quite ready to catch a ghost yet. We don’t even have a way of trapping them!”

“Aww… Who cares about _trapping_ them though? When I finally get my hands on a ghost, I plan on ripping it apart _molecule by molecule!_ ”

Danny doesn’t notice when he moves away from the wall, but he does know when he jabs his hip into the counter on the other side of the room. The pain— _biting, stinging, burning, tearing_ —jolts him back into awareness. He’s gasping for breath, hands circling his own neck, and his eyes are wide, unseeing, finally, _finally_ , realizing the situation he’s in.

_I’m alive I’m a ghost I’m alive I’m a ghost I’m alive I’m a ghost I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive_ —

He’s a ghost now. He’s gotta be. He’s a ghost and his parents _hunt_ ghosts, they _destroy_ ghosts, and why would they _care_ if he’s still their _son_ , he’s _a ghost_ , they _catch_ ghosts, they _kill ghosts_ —

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive_.

He’s not so sure of that anymore.

Ghosts aren’t alive. That’s something that everyone knows, something he’s been taught since he’s been old enough to talk. _Ghosts aren’t alive, sweetie. They’re putrid manifestations of post-human consciousness. They don’t think, they don’t feel, and they’re all completely_ evil.

His fingers are digging into his skull. Does he still have a skull? Do ghosts have skulls? What are ghosts made out of? _Ectoplasm, dumbass. Ghosts don’t have bones because they’re made of that goopy crap. That’s why they can go all see-through._

His fingers go numb and he pulls his hands away from his head to examine them. He can see the ground through his hand and he’s sure that he would scream if his throat wasn’t still raw. He desperately waves his hand, hoping the pins and needles of sensation will return— _my hand fell asleep, I’m not dead, I’m alive, I’m alive_ —and he gives a breathless sob when the burning feeling of life tears from the tips of his fingers all the way to his elbow.

He pulls himself to his feet—when did he slide to the floor?—and silently returns to his chair. He failed in his one task and now his food is gross but that doesn’t matter so much anymore. If he eats, he can’t be dead and if he’s not dead then he’s not a ghost because ghosts can’t eat because they’re not alive.

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive_.

He forces himself to eat even though his stomach is twisting and turning and once he’s done, he cleans up and goes back upstairs, pulling himself up along the railing slowly. He barely makes it inside his room, the door softly clicking behind him, when the cold in his bones threatens to drown him. He chokes on a gasp and clutches his chest, heart stuttering as the biting chill threatens to overwhelm him. His vision goes fuzzy, blackening around the edges and he squeezes them tightly shut.

A wave of terror washes over him and for a second it feels like he’s dying again. The burning, stinging, static of pain assaults his senses almost lazily, accompanying a weird numbness that’s starting to spread from his chest to the rest of him. There’s a flash of something bright enough to see behind his eyelids, and the next thing he knows, the pain is gone without a trace.

All that’s left is a coldness that he almost can’t feel.

His eyes snap open and the first thing he sees is black. He forgets to panic in the face of the next thing he can make out—the fact that the black is where his knees should be, knees that were covered by jeans a second ago. He takes a slow, shallow breath and swallows nervously.

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._

“ _You…you didn’t look like yourself, dude. You looked… different. You looked dead. You-you looked… d-dead. But now you… But you don’t—not anymore.”_

Tucker had told him he’s stumbled out of the portal wearing a jumpsuit that was mostly black. He remembers white gloves. He holds up a hand and his eyes connect to his memory.

_I’m a ghost I’m a ghost I’m a ghOS_ —

He doesn’t scream because he thinks he can’t, he jumps because _what else can he do_ , he panics because the motion sends him up into the air far enough that his back slams into his ceiling, he cries because not even a second later his legs dissipate into some sort of black fog and _what am I supposed to do without LEGS_ —

His legs are back and he’s crashing to the ground. He scrambles to his feet fast enough to leave him light headed and he just stands there for a second, breathing rapid. He sees his dresser mirror out of the corner of his eye and he refuses to look. He doesn’t want to see that he’s dead. He doesn’t want to see a ghost.

_I guess Mom and Dad were right_ , he finds himself thinking, feet leaving the ground to float an inch above it. _Ghosts are real._

“I’m a ghost.”

His voice is still scratchy but it’s there and he’s grateful for that. He doesn’t know what he’d do without a voice. He hums just to hear it again and he finds that his throat doesn’t hurt anymore. He blinks as his hair falls into his face and stares at it for a minute, disbelieving. Tucker had told him what he’d looked like, but he didn’t really _believe_ him.

He turns to the mirror now, eyes still trained on his hair, and takes a deep breath—does he even _need_ to breathe anymore?—before looking at his reflection.

“ _Your… your, uh, suit, I guess. It was. The colors were like. Reversed. The white was… all black and the black was all white. Your… All your hair was white and your eyes were this weird green color and you… You…you didn’t look like yourself, dude.”_

Tucker didn’t tell him that he _glowed_.

As terrified as he is, he can’t look away. He can’t stop staring at his own face and those alien features he’s never seen before. He looks like a ghost, he really does, and he doesn’t want to believe that he’s looking at himself. The white hair that almost seemed to wisp off at the ends, the swirling green eyes that remind him of the portal— _burning, sharp, stinging pain_ —the freckles that his mother’s always loved stained green along a pale face that looks too human to be ghostly but too ghostly to be human…

He brings up a white gloved hand and presses it against the glass. His reflection does the same. He turns away without a sound and crumbles to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest, hands locked around his own wrists to hold himself together.

_You looked dead._

He cries himself back to sleep.

When his sister pokes her head it to grab him for dinner, he’s back to normal.

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._


	2. part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _here’s part two. please enjoy. thanks again to my gf ashe (hikareh on ffn) for beta reading even tho you were tired. what a gal ;p_

The next morning happens essentially the same way as the first but he doesn’t listen to his parents in the lab again. He wakes up early this time, his jitters finally gone, and makes a simple breakfast of eggs and untoasted bread. Jazz is surprised to see him up so early, but she doesn’t ask him any questions. It just serves to make him feel guilty so he tells her that he didn’t feel well yesterday so he did a lot of sleeping.

She asks him if he’s okay. He lies and tells her he is.

Tucker comes over right before lunch, showing up on the doorstep with an awkward smile and fidgety fingers. Danny smiles at him but he knows it probably looks forced.

“Nasty Burger?” Tucker asks, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Sure,” he says, ducking back inside. He jogs upstairs as quickly as he can manage and grabs his wallet and his keys. He glances at his reflection and freezes. Black hair, blue eyes, normal freckles, human skin—he thought he saw… Never mind.

He’s back downstairs before he knows it and he calls out to his parents to tell them he’s leaving. He can almost hear them pause in their tinkering in the lab. He pushes Tucker down the front steps and tries another fake smile. “Is Sam gonna meet with us?”

Tucker hesitates before he starts walking off. Danny takes a deep breath before following. Something about the way Tucker’s shoulders are set and his jaw is clenched makes Danny feel heavy and off. He feels like he’s suffocating on unease and he’s not sure it’s entirely his own.

_I’m a ghost. Ghosts are made of ectoplasm and leftover emotions._

He wants to slap himself in the face but he’s worried that Tucker will think he’s crazy so he doesn’t. He wants to scream but he doesn’t want to scare his friend, so he doesn’t. He kinda wants to die but, well, _been there done that_ , so he can’t.

They arrive at the Nasty Burger faster than he thought was possible. The walk was mostly silent, so the sudden loud and noise of the local fast food join has Danny’s head spinning and his knees weak. He stumbles, managing to catch himself before it becomes too obvious, and glances at Tucker. The other boy is making a beeline towards the door so he didn’t see a thing.

He can see better and he can hear better but that doesn’t help him _feel_ better.

He winces, wishing he can cover his ears from the sound, but he can’t do that without looking like a freak—is he a freak? Is he a human? A ghost? What is he? Why does he look human if he’s a ghost? Why does he look alive if he’s _dead_?—so he suffers through it until he can adjust. Eventually, it turns into a sort of dull roaring that he can tune out, so at least there’s that.

Tucker leads him into the restaurant and up to the counter. Danny looks around, trying to spot Sam and it feels like a punch to the gut when he doesn’t find her. Tucker must order for him as he’s lost in his own head because the next thing he knows, there’s a finger jabbing him in the ribs. “You got money, dude?”

Danny nods mutely and pulls out his wallet, passing his friend enough to cover his usual order. It must be enough because the other boy looks away, handing it off the cashier before dragging Danny off towards their normal booth. Danny doesn’t fight the hands that shove him onto the bench seat and instead makes himself comfortable against the vinyl seating.

It’s silent between them for a moment, Danny staring up past Tucker and at the ceiling, before it’s broken by the sound of a throat being cleared.

“So…” The pause is long enough to be awkward and it has Danny shifting uncomfortably as he’s hit with a wave of uncertainty. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Danny says without feeling. Tucker doesn’t see his hands flickering in and out of tangibility. Danny doesn’t see them either after they blink out of sight. His breath hitches in his throat and he forces himself to look at something else. _I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._ “A little shaken up, but I’ll be okay.”

“Still?” Tucker presses, brows furrowing as his face finally breaks out of its impassive expression. “It’s been almost two days now. You’re still bothered by it?”

“Isn’t Sam?” Danny shoots back, harsher than intended. He bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood and he clutches the knees of his pants. His hands are back apparently. Tucker looks taken aback and he has to take a second to breathe. “Sorry,” he murmurs, shoulders loosening from where they’d tensed. “I’m just not… not adjusting well.”

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._

“I can see that, man. You’re white as a sheet. You look like you’ve seen a—” He cuts himself off, eyes going wide. Danny stares at the ceiling again vaguely aware of a jolt of panic that he doesn’t actually think is his. He doesn’t want to see the moment it connects, doesn’t want to see the look on Tucker’s face as he realizes that his best friend is dead. _Not dead. I’m alive._

“Oh,” is all he says, as if that’s all there was to be said.

“I’m not dead,” Danny snaps quietly, still unable to look at Tucker. He hears the sharp intake of breath and continues in a softer voice. “I’m not dead. I can’t be dead. Dead people don’t look like people. _Ghosts don’t look like humans_. I…” He wants to cry but they’re in public and he’s worried about what people would think. “I can’t be a ghost because I’m still alive.”

Tucker is utterly silent except for his breathing and Danny chances a look at him. The boy’s jade eyes are wide and his face is screwed into a harsh look of concern. Danny looks away but the diluted buzz of worry he’s now sure is Tucker’s follows him. “Are you okay?” Tucker asks again, the words seeming to carry more weight than before.

“Honestly, Tuck?” Danny sighs. “I don’t even know.”

The arrival of their food cuts off further conversation and they move to eat. A heavy silence settles over them and when Tucker breaks it again, the conversation has moved on to more light hearted things. Tucker rambles for at least ten minutes on the latest cell phone models on the market and another fifteen about the upcoming games coming out later in the year. Eventually he starts to talk about school and how he’s dreading it even if he _is_ a little excited. The start of freshman year is just around the corner and “you only start high school once.”

Danny knows what Tucker is doing and he’s grateful. Tucker doesn’t expect him to speak all the time even on the best of days, so he leaves little room for Danny to interrupt. If Sam were here she’d be mad about Tucker’s tendency to steamroll a conversation, but Danny’s voice is still shaky and croaky from the accident—he can still hear the echoes of his own voice—so he doesn’t mind. The less he has to speak, the better.

After a solid hour and a half, Tucker finally slows to a stop, pulling out his phone to check the time. “Wow, it’s almost two. I should probably get home. My mom wants to take me shopping for school supplies once she gets off work so I gotta be ready by three. You okay to get home on your own?”

Danny nods slowly, gathering his trash. He pulls himself out of the booth and to his feet, swaying slightly. He thinks his butt went numb sitting for so long. “Yeah,” he says, just to hear himself say it. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Alright man.” Tucker sounds like he doesn’t believe him but he can’t do anything about it. “Text me when you get home. I…” he trails off, looking embarrassed, “I wanna be sure you get home safe.”

Had this been any other time, Danny would have teased him mercilessly. Now, however, he just nods. “Sure.”

Tucker’s lips thin in concern for a minute before he makes his way towards the door. “See ya, dude.”

Danny simply gives a small wave back, dropping his hand limply at this side once Tucker is gone. He takes a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs until his throat hurts before exhaling hard. He takes his leave of the place, continuing his in-and-out exercise until he feels lightheaded and has to stop.

The walk takes him twenty minutes longer than usual. He stops at the bottom of his front steps and tilts his head up to look at the sky. It’s August now, he realizes, so the summer sun is still blazing overhead as the dog days start marching in. He shivers suddenly and he’s confused long enough to forget why.

He’s a ghost now—but is he?—and ghosts are cold. (At least… he thinks ghosts are cold. Hell, there might be ghosts that burn hot and some that fall somewhere in between, but it’s nothing he’s ever cared to know before—maybe he should _start_ caring. He wouldn’t be in this mess if he’d cared enough to know about ghosts.)

As if to answer his thoughts, he promptly chokes on the cold and has to cough violently to breathe again. Eyes clamped shut, all he notices in the _shift_ in the air as something cloying and menacing moves towards him. Without looking, he stumbles backwards, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk and crashing down, air evacuating his lungs faster than he could pull it back in.

The… _aura_ , for lack of a better term, hesitates above him and he forces himself to lock eyes with the direction it’s coming from. There’s a confused hiss before his vision is filled with a bright red eyes surrounded by swirling green.

He screams, loudly, and digs his fingers into the ground in his haste to scramble backwards. He’s panting, vision blurring, and the only thing he wants is to _disappear_ —

“Ghost!” The voice of his father thunders in his ears and he’s dizzy for a second. His sight clears up enough to see a mass of orange storming out of the house, ecto-guns blazing, a high pitched whine coming from the barrel as it powers up. The blast that hits the supposed ghost is a surprise and Danny is gasping silently for air he can’t breathe, hoping and praying that the gun won’t turn on him.

The ghost screeches and takes off, fading out of the visible spectrum, and Jack sighs disappointedly. He shakes a fist at the sky, shouting, “Yeah, you better run! I’ll get you yet, or my name isn’t _Jack Fenton_!” before he turns and heads back into the house, dark blue eyes completely skipping over where Danny is lying.

It takes a second for it to click _exactly why_ his father can’t see him, and instantly he reappears, arms trembling as they try to support his weight. He pulls himself upright and drags himself inside, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he can. His father is down in the lab again, no doubt telling his mother what he’d seen, but he can’t bring himself to care. He returns to his bedroom and texts the all clear to Tucker before collapsing onto his bed.

He has enough time to tell himself to stop sleeping all the time before he drifts off.

The next time he sees a ghost, it’s nearly four days later. He hasn’t seen his friends in person since lunch with Tucker at the Nasty Burger but he tries to ignore how much it hurts by distracting himself with some old game that he used to play as a kid.

The ghost shows up suddenly and he’s once again choking on his own breathing. It feels like he’s swallowed dry ice and he coughs to dislodge the biting frost that unfurls from his lungs. He keeps his eyes open this time because he has to know if he’s going crazy or not.

His breath puffs out in front of him, winter isolated to his bedroom, and he watches, mesmerized, as the fog disperses as if it never existed to begin with. So, not crazy then, but coughing up cold air isn’t _normal_ per se and it reaffirms that the last four days of relative normalcy—besides the lack of Sam and Tucker—were all a farce. Being this weird, not-dead-but-still-kinda-dead kid is his new normal. It has to be.

(As much as he doesn’t want to think about it, he’s probably never going to be able to go back to the way things were before. The thought doesn’t exactly upset him because honestly when has he ever been _normal_?)

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._

This ghost is a bit humanoid but more blob-shaped than person-shaped. It’s entirely green, eyes and all, and he has time to marvel at its ridiculously sharp teeth and claws before it attempts to swipe at him. In his surprise, he doesn’t notice his becoming-all-too-common lack of tangibility and instead focuses on finding his voice—completely back to normal by this point, thank god—to call down to his parents. As much as he’s learning to fear what they might do to him—if he really _is_ a ghost—he’s terrified of this creature in his bedroom more.

He manages to stumble to his feet and he’s falling through his door before he realizes what he’s doing. He hits the railing of the stairs, solid once again, and calls out, “There’s a ghost in my room!” before he can truly appreciate the irony.

(It hits him an instant later and despite his growing panicked paranoia, he has to laugh at himself. _There’s a ghost in my room alright. He lives here. My house is haunted because I live here. Mom and Dad would think that’s hilarious if they knew._ )

His mother makes it upstairs first, being in better shape and having come from the lab, but Danny’s more scared of her than his father so he simply points to his closed bedroom door and ducks into the bathroom down the hall to hide out until the coast is clear. It takes about five minutes for his parents to chase the ghost out—the didn’t want to shoot the ghost, seeing as it was in Danny’s room, but they haven’t managed to create something to contain ghosts yet—but eventually the thing is gone and he’s free to get back to… What was he doing before? Doesn’t matter, not really.

He finds his phone on the floor beside his bed and he scoops it up to text his friends. He hesitates before he taps out, _so there was a ghost in my room_ , and hits send, the first message he’s sent to their group chat since the accident six days ago now. He ignores the messages that rolled in since then, and waits until the first reply comes in.

A few seconds after his message, Tucker comes back with, _Dude! Are you okay?_

 _yeah, im fine_. He doesn’t expect Sam to reply. She hasn’t been talking to him. Hopefully she’ll take the group message as an olive branch.

_What happened?_

Danny glances over at his TV, the screen displaying a black screen reading “Game Over” in a bright red font. _was just playin a game and all of a sudden i felt cold. turns out it was a ghost._

_It was just. There? In your room?_

_yeah_. He wants to also say, _its not the first ghost thats been in my room_ , but he knows he can’t just say that. They might think he’s been attacked before—which, technically, he has, but not here—and they don’t know what he’s been going through the past few days. He doesn’t want to tell them, not really, not until he figures it out himself.

He’s only seen that _other_ form—the ghost form—once. He’s still not sure it really exists.

Almost a week later and he still doesn’t know if he’s actually dead or not. Shouldn’t he know by now? Shouldn’t his body be—he shudders— _decomposing_ if he’s dead? Why does he still look, act, think, feel, eat, sleep, _breathe_ like a human if he’s actually a ghost? What if he’s not a ghost? _What if he’s just a freak?_

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._

_I’m a ghost. I’m a ghost. I’m a ghost._

But can he be both? It’s impossible, completely and totally illogical, and he throws the idea out immediately. He has to be one or the other. No one can _possibly_ be a human _and_ a ghost. Ghosts are made of ectoplasm and humans are made of human things. Ghosts aren’t alive and humans _are_. That’s just the way the world works. There’s no way that he’s… that he’s some kind of freaky, unnatural _hybrid_ for god’s sake. It’s just not possible. It’s not _normal_.

 _Since when have I_ ever _been normal?_

He’s the most normal out of his family if he’s being honest. The Fentons are “a family of geniuses” but yet he somehow manages to completely break the mold. He’s not an inventor or a scientist like his parents and he’s certainly not as book smart or studious as his sister. He’s average, mediocre Danny Fenton and he just wants to fit in, get good grades, and grow up to be an astronaut.

He’s fourteen years old and he’s dead. So much for fitting in. So much for growing up.

His phone pings in his hands and he ignores it, turning it off and plugging it in. It’s getting late—it’s only ten o’clock—so he hopes Tucker will assume he went to bed—even though he slept until noon. He’s been doing a lot of thinking the past few days and it’s made him realize that he has to face his parents eventually. It might as well be sooner rather than later.

Mind made up, he leaves his room and descends all the way downstairs to where his parents are yet again working away in the lab. He doesn’t know what they can _possibly_ be doing down here all day every day, but he doesn’t question it because he doesn’t know if he’d like the answer. He sees his father first, broad shoulders and head hunched over a workbench, and he pauses for a moment at the bottoms of the steps.

_I hope I don’t regret this._

“Hey, Dad?” he calls out quietly as he approaches so as to not startle the large man. It works to extent, as the jump Jack gives is a small one, so Danny continues. “Can I ask you guys some questions?”

Jack’s smile is wide and warm and Danny almost finds it in him to smile back. “Sure thing, Danno! Did you come all the way down here to hear me blather on about ghosts?”

Danny gives a miniscule nod and watches as his father lights up like a kid in a candy store. “I wanted to ask you guys some… _hypothetical_ questions, if that’s okay?”

“Why of course, Sweetie!” Maddie comes up behind him and puts both hands on his shoulders. If she wasn’t holding him down, he would have jumped. “What did you wanna know?”

Danny takes a deep breath and, with a tentative look at his practically vibrating father, he asks, “What are ghosts made out of?”

His mother gives a light laugh as if he said something offhandedly funny. “Oh, Danny, you know what ghosts are made out of! We’ve told you a million times!”

Danny grimaces. “Yeah, but like. What _specifically_ are they made of? How are ghosts made?”

Maddie gives a thoughtful hum and releases him to step around to face him. “Well, as you know, ghosts are composed entirely of the otherworldly substance known as _ectoplasm_. Ectoplasmic energy is what makes a ghost able to move about and keep its shape. Ectoplasm tends to ignore a lot of physical sciences.”

“Ectoplasm hates physics!” Jack booms and Danny winces. “It likes to spit in the face of gravity and friction and it almost seems to have a mind of its own!”

“In addition to ectoplasm,” Maddie takes over, cutting off what was sure to be a long winded rant that would blow over Danny’s head, “ghosts are made of the imprint of feelings, emotions, and memories left behind when someone or something dies.”

Danny quirks a confused brow and she waves a hand. “Any living thing can become a ghost once it dies. People and animals can become ghosts and some theories suggest that there are ghostly _plants_ as well.” Maddie rolls her eyes. “Anyway, to put it simply, ghosts are made out of energy, emotions, and memories. Does that help?”

“Yeah. A little.” Danny takes a deep breath before plunging into his next question, clasping his hands together to stop his fingers from trembling. “So, hypothetically, do ghosts need to eat or sleep or breathe?” He tilts his head in a way he hopes looks innocent and not completely terrified. “And would they have a heartbeat?”

The roaring laughter that erupts from his parents catches him off guard and he falls backwards a few steps. “That’s a good one, Danny-boy!” his father crows, wiping a tear from his eyes. “Asking if ghosts need things that us humans do. Goodness, no!”

“Ghosts are made of _energy_ , dear. They don’t need to get it from anywhere else. They don’t have the necessary, ah, _parts_ to possess lungs or a heartbeat. Any ghost that _looks_ like it’s breathing is probably just mimicking the action,” Maddie tells him, the smile on her face lined with mirth. “Where would you get _that_ idea?”

Danny fakes a laugh that’s more nerves than keeping up appearances. “Ah, I dunno, just something I’ve been wondering since I… saw the ghost in my room.” _Liar!_ “Since it kinda looked like a person I was wondering if it… acted like one.”

“Of course not!” His mother laughs again and turns away to look over his dad’s current project. She starts ranting about the ghost that had been in his bedroom and he has to admit that sometimes he’s glad they’re so obsessed with their work. It makes it easier for him to slip past unnoticed as he backs away slowly and turns tail at the stairs.

If he’s being completely honest, he knows the feeling of being invisible already, ghost or not.

He creeps back into his bedroom and locks the door behind him. He’s sure he’s going to regret this, but he has to know. _Am I alive? Am I a ghost?_

He’s not sure he really wants to know anymore.

He tries to remember what it felt in that other form, what it felt like to kill himself again, what it felt like to be a ghost. The _burning, stinging pain_ is a fading memory now and he that worries him more than anything. Ghosts are made of memories. What happens once those memories fade? (He forgets that he remembers everything important about his life—like his friends and family and such—and that his memory, as far as he could tell before talking to his parents, was as fine as it was before the accident. His newfound paranoia is quickly becoming his worst enemy.)

Danny remembers a flash of light. He also remembers a deep set chill, a blistering cold that almost hurt, a frost that made its home in his bones, a numbing feeling like he couldn’t feel anything anymore, like an arm that’s falling asleep. He remembers the jumpsuit, the stark white on pitch black, the snowy hair and the swirling eyes, the ghostly-but-human pallor of his skin.

The cold suddenly flares in his chest—if Danny’s being honest with himself, and he’s not, then he would be able to admit that he can always feel the cold, but he chooses to ignore it—and he imagines himself reaching out for it and pulling it closer to himself, closer to the surface. Goosebumps break out over his skin and he gasps out a sharp exhale as the feeling of his blood turning to ice spreads throughout his body.

He tries to keep his eyes open but the flash is too bright and he has to squint to see past it. There’s a ring of light, right there around his waist, and it splits in half to travel over him, chilling him, _changing_ him as it goes. It doesn’t hurt this time, he notices vaguely, though it does tingle. It reminds him of static electricity. Ironic. The light passes over his face and he’s almost disappointed that his eyesight doesn’t magically get sharper or anything. (Danny’s not sure when he started imagining this… _transformation_ being something akin to one of those magical girl cartoons that Tucker likes to watch, but he banishes the thought from his head. Magical girls aren’t supposed to be dead.)

The light fades out and he’s left standing in his room with nothing but his faint glow to keep him company. He steels himself and puts his hands against his chest and _breathes_ , feeling his chest rise with the force of the action. Danny walks over to his bed and sit down, staring at the clock on the end table as he takes another deep breath and holds it in.

It takes at least ten minutes for his chest to burn and he exhales, marveling at the little black spots that fade from his sight as he lets himself breathe. “Ghosts don’t have lungs,” he murmurs to himself, eyes wide and frantic. He holds his hands up and tells himself that they’re invisible. They fade away and he waits for a minute before telling them to come back. They’re exactly where he expects them to be. Danny thinks about shoving his hand through his bed so he does it, his translucent arm numb and cold as he waves it around where his bed, solid as ever, should definitely be. He pulls away and brushes now solid fingers against the covers. He thinks, very briefly, _Ghosts can float_ , and then he’s hovering in the air.

Danny curls into a ball, mind scattered and confused, and shoves his fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse. “Ghosts don’t have a heartbeat. They aren’t alive so they don’t have a pulse.” He swallows, breathing shallow. “Ghosts are made of memories. They copy things because they remember them.” Danny doesn’t remember how often a heart is supposed to beat. He knows how to breathe because it’s an action, something that can be done on command. A heartbeat is completely involuntary.

_I’m a ghost. Ghosts are dead. Ghosts don’t need to breathe. Ghosts don’t have a pulse. Ghosts don’t have lungs or heartbeats and neither do I._

A soft beat under his fingers has his breath hitch in his throat.

_I’m alive._

He digs his fingers into his neck, drifting back down to sit on his bed without realizing, and he waits. He waits so long he’s sure that he never felt it the first time and then he feels it again. His eyes tear up and he wraps his other arm around his legs, pushing himself tightly together as if he can hold up the broken mess he’s become before he shatters into a million pieces. There’s another beat and he sobs, burying his face into his knees as he realizes that yes, he has a heartbeat, _yes_ , he needs to breathe, so _what does that mean for him_?

Is he a ghost? Is he a human?

What if he’s both?

_I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive._

_I’m a ghost. I’m a ghost. I’m a ghost._

_I’m alive. I’m alive._

“ _I’m alive_.”

But how can he be both?

_What if he’s neither?_

**Author's Note:**

> god the phandom is so nice and active and great. it feels good to post dp stuff again. please leave reviews/comments. it fuels me and im like. kinda nervous about this bc i love it a lot


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